


Warmth of Humanity

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crappy Motel Rooms, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Newly Human Castiel (Supernatural), Sleepy Cuddles, Soft Dean Winchester, Third Wheel Sam Winchester, and /gasp/ there was only one bed!, and definitely not talked about enough, because that scene was simultaneously both endearing and frightening, feat. Cas squeezing toothpaste directly into his mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23516542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: “...Dean?” Castiel’s voice is somehow even lower than his usual gravelly growl, a rough rumble in his chest that’s heavy with sleep.“Hi,” Dean replies, immediately wincing with how stupid he sounded.Castiel turns on the lamp next to the bed, sitting up and blinking drowsily at Dean, who is frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights.“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Dean blurts as his eyes gradually adjust to the sudden brightness, apologetic.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 182





	Warmth of Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> ngl, I took a lot of liberties with this one… (we’re ditching the whole hell trials killing Sam problem, plus the April and Zeke—although I do like his character because he actually had good intentions, was unfortunately just a little too gullible—mess because Cas deserves better)
> 
> I just wanted to write big bad hunter Dean bumbling around in the dark and accidentally waking Cas lol

Dean doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but he supposes it wasn’t this because he freezes for a moment, eyes wide.

Castiel is curled up in a small lump under the sheets of Dean’s bed.

Well, it wasn’t really his. First of all, it’s a crappy motel bed, and second, it wasn’t officially Dean’s because they never discussed how three grown men were going to share two doubles, but Sam and Dean had a longstanding mutual agreement that Dean would always take the bed closest to the door — if he was feeling under the weather or seriously injured, Sam would always insist on him taking the one deeper in the room, farther from the door — and it had become a reflex for Dean.

Even so, something in Dean  _ feels, _ responding to the idea of Castiel in his bed. It leaves him feeling frighteningly vulnerable, wanting after something so soft in his steel sharp life.

Dean shakes his head, closing his fist around the motel key until it digs into his palm and fingers. Until the vicious bite of pain banishes his foolish thoughts. He doesn’t deserve anything like that fantasy, anyway.

Unsure of how deeply the recently turned human Castiel slept, Dean decides against turning on any lights. He quickly shuts the door behind him so the lighting from the hallway wouldn’t wake the former angel, and in his mission to keep Castiel asleep, Dean overlooks the importance of using the light to map out the unfamiliar room before it’s extinguished.

Walking silently in his heavy boots is as easy as breathing for Dean, and he strides forward with confident steps even though he couldn’t see a single thing in the absolute darkness. Before he could spare a thought to wonder where he was planning to go, Dean walks right into a low coffee table, his shin hitting it hard enough to nudge the table half an inch across the floor.

Holding his breath and gritting his teeth to avoid cursing, Dean slowly hisses out a pained exhale.

“...Dean?” Castiel’s voice is somehow even lower than his usual gravelly growl, a rough rumble in his chest that’s heavy with sleep.

“Hi,” Dean replies, immediately wincing with how stupid he sounded.

Castiel turns on the lamp next to the bed, sitting up and blinking drowsily at Dean, who is frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Dean blurts as his eyes gradually adjust to the sudden brightness, apologetic.

Instead of responding, Castiel paws absently at his eyes, and  _ dammit that’s _ not  _ adorable— _

“Wait.” Dean takes an unconscious step forward, squinting. “You’re still— Dammit, Cas, I told you to change out of those!”

Castiel fiddles with the damp cuff of his sleeve, not meeting Dean’s furious gaze.

It’s so painfully  _ human, _ and Dean’s heart twists, because this isn’t Castiel. Castiel is supposed to be a force to be reckoned with, immovable and unbothered by the flow of time. He’s supposed to be a bona fide angel, consistently confused by humanity, complete with huge feathery wings and a halo. He’s supposed to be an endless galaxy packed into a mortal vessel.

Not this.

He isn’t supposed to need food, to use the bathroom. He isn’t supposed to be the lost puppy Sam and Dean had finally found after a ridiculous amount of frantic searching, drenched to the skin by the rain and wandering about in stolen clothes with no home to return to.

Not Castiel. He was supposed to be untouchable.

He was supposed to be someone Dean couldn’t drag down. Someone Dean couldn’t break.

Dean stalks to where his duffle lays on the floor, yanking the zipper open to dig through his clean clothes. He grabs a dark t shirt, a pair of worn jeans he hasn’t been wearing recently because they’re a tad too tight around his hips, and even one of his softest flannels for good measure, stacking them clumsily in one hand. A heartbeat of hesitation later, he adds a pair of boxers to the pile.

“Here,” Dean says, gruff, holding the clothes out to Castiel without looking at him. “Go change, I’ll pull the sheets.”

Castiel doesn’t move.

Glancing up, Dean catches sight of Castiel’s crestfallen expression and makes an effort to gentle his tone. “I meant you could help yourself, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Castiel mumbles to his hands.

When Dean offers the bundle again, Castiel takes it, cradling Dean’s clothes in his hands like something precious.

Dean reaches out and pats Castiel’s shoulder. Selfishly, he lets his touch linger longer than he should, lightly trailing his fingers halfway down Castiel’s bicep as he withdraws his hand. “You do now.”

He’s the single witness to Castiel’s eyes softening with something devastatingly fond. Clearing his throat as if it would stop the warmth staining his cheeks, Dean turns and wanders away from the bed.

Thankfully, there are extra sheets in one drawer of the old dresser. Dean tugs the sheets off the bed — just damp enough from Castiel’s clothes to darken some parts of the fabric — and is relieved to find no water had seeped into the thin mattress. Quick and efficient in an experienced way, Dean makes the bed, leaving the replaced sheets in a pile on the floor. He’s idly fluffing the pillow when the doorknob of the bathroom turns.

“Does everything…”

Dean trails off, eyes roaming. He doesn’t know if he wants Castiel back in his ill fitting suit and trench coat or loose stolen clothing, or for him to never change clothes ever again. The t shirt had been the perfect amount of tight on Dean, but on Castiel, it’s a bit loose around his waist, and his arms are fit to burst out of his sleeves. And the jeans… Dean’s never really noticed Castiel’s legs because of his baggy dress pants, but now? Absolutely stunned, Dean wonders just how Castiel could have thighs so thick when he used to fly everywhere.

“Yes. Thank you, Dean.” Castiel smiles, a tiny fleeting thing, and Dean’s traitorous heart actually stutters.

“That’s, uh.” Dean coughs. “Good.”

Castiel stands and watches Dean, eyes warm; Dean fidgets, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hm— Bet you’re tired, huh? Long day, and everything.”

As patient and indulgent as ever, Castiel tips his head in the faintest of agreeable nods.

“Should probably turn in, Sam’ll be back soon.” Dean takes a breath, for the first time in what seemed like a small eternity since he’d seen Castiel walk out the bathroom. “You can take the bed.”

“I couldn’t—”

“‘s your first time goin’ full mortal, and all— Plus, I don’t think you’ve experienced the finer parts of humanity just yet.”

Castiel looks down. “Some people have been very kind.”

“Most haven’t,” Dean shoots back, and Castiel doesn’t argue. “C’mon, buddy. Humour me?”

“...Alright.”

Dean smiles.

And then he finds out about Castiel’s horrifying substitute for brushing his teeth.

“Whoa! Wait, what are you doing?”

Castiel slurs something Dean sincerely hopes isn’t  _ brushing my teeth _ around the tube of toothpaste he’s squeezing directly into his mouth.

“No,” Dean sighs. “Spit that out.”

Pausing, Castiel blinks. He leans over the sink and obediently spits out what Dean suspects is a good fifth of the tube of bright blue toothpaste, licking his lips with a frown. “That doesn’t get any better with time.”

Dean laughs. He can’t help it. “You aren’t supposed to gargle straight toothpaste.”

“Yes,” Castiel muses, his frown deepening. “It’s much too time consuming to use the small brush— Far easier to use the tongue. However, I can’t say I enjoy the taste.”

“You— Okay. Wait.” Dean heads back to his duffle. “Do  _ not _ touch that toothpaste,” he calls back to Castiel as he searches for his own toiletries.

When Dean returns, he finds Castiel glaring at the forlorn tube of toothpaste balanced precariously on the edge of the sink. “Okay. Tooth brushing time.” He grabs the single flimsy plastic cup the motel has provided, filling it with water from the tap.

Dean walks Castiel through wetting the brush and squeezing out a line of toothpaste onto the bristles. Castiel mirrors the actions perfectly, only with a healthy dose of confusion.

“You’re gonna take a swig of that,” Dean grabs the cup of water. “But  _ don’t _ swallow, you just need to wet your mouth. When you brush, use circular motions; 2 minutes, get every tooth.” He demonstrates, filling his mouth and spitting the water before he starts brushing, starting with his bottom molars so Castiel could see clearly. “Li’e ‘his.”

Castiel hesitates but accepts the cup of water from Dean. He’s clumsy at first, but determined enough for Dean to be reminded of teaching Sam how to brush his teeth when they were young. It makes him gentle, makes him carefully guide Castiel’s hand when the former angel struggles with the unfamiliar motion, makes him laugh bright and happy and carefree around his toothbrush in his mouth when Castiel gets the hang of it.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice calls.

“Yea!”

“Dean?!”

Dean pulls his toothbrush out of his mouth, smiling proudly as Castiel continues brushing his own teeth. “I’m good!”

Sam doesn’t yell again, so Dean continues his little impromptu lesson, silently gesturing. Turns out, Castiel is rather good at charades — or perhaps he simply understands Dean too well — and he follows the given instructions easily. Castiel waits patiently for Dean to rinse out his mouth as well, although it might just be because Dean is blocking the doorway.

“You did good,” Dean praises when his mouth is clear of toothpaste. His grin is wide, and only grows when Castiel smiles enough to flash a glimpse of freshly brushed teeth.

Luckily for Dean, Sam doesn’t comment. But the corners of his mouth curl faintly, pleased, as if he knew something Dean didn’t.

Pointedly ignoring his brother, Dean hustles Castiel into bed. Castiel doesn’t protest again and falls asleep almost instantly; Dean decides not to think too much of it, absently tugging the motel blanket higher over Castiel’s shoulder.

Sam disappears into the bathroom to take a shower, going through his routine as quiet as he could with his distinct brand of selfless consideration. Dean moves one of the more comfortable motel chairs from the small table on the other side of the room — at least it has armrests and a lightly padded seat, better than hard plastic — close to Castiel’s bedside, settling down with his jacket for warmth.

When Sam exits the bathroom and tries to bully Dean into the other bed with an impressive combination of furious glares, head movements, and jaw clenching, Dean stubbornly remains where he is. His mind is already made. Exhaustion from the day and late hour makes Sam give in much faster than either of them expect; with a final displeased scowl, Sam drags himself to the bed and shoves his face into the pillow.

Dean waits until Sam’s breathing rasps gently with the snores his little brother will always deny producing. His eyes are heavy and he’ll have the worst kind of back pain in the morning, but Dean doesn’t have a single thought for regret.

“Guess I’m watching over you now,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel slumbers on. His whole body faces Dean, a sunflower turned to the sun, and Dean finds himself wishing Castiel good dreams even as he surrenders to sleep.

Dean feels like he’d only just closed his eyes when he wakes again to the silver glow of the moon sitting high in the sky. He shifts, arching his back in a stretch until it protests, and then hunkers back down, because he  _ needs _ his four hours—

The real reason Dean is awake at  _ ass o’clock in the morning _ moves in Dean’s peripheral and he’s instantly on high alert, even if he feels almost as bad as the time he’d been dying of a heart thing and Sam had taken him to a shady faith healer in a tent.

It’s only Castiel being restless in his sleep, but Dean doesn’t miss the pained pinch of his brow. Or the way his near silent breaths are now audible, rough in the beginning stages of something Dean knows isn’t snoring.

Leaning forward, Dean whispers, “Cas.” His voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t bother wasting time clearing it. “Hey.” Tentatively, Dean sets a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas—” He nudges, gentle. “C’mon, wake up.”

Castiel frowns as he forces his eyes open to narrow slits, glaring balefully up at Dean.

“Hey,” Dean drawls, “there you are.”

Castiel huffs, not quite a sigh, and deliberately closes his eyes again.

Dean wrestles valiantly against his instinctive burst of irritation at Castiel’s reaction and manages to tamp it down with merely the shortest of struggles. He understands how Castiel is feeling, but this is urgent. “Cas, buddy, c’mon. It’ll be  _ really _ quick, promise.”

A bit of coaxing, gargling some water with a generous pinch of salt, and Dean’s leading a grumpy Castiel back to bed.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, yeah?”

Castiel presses his lips together — no doubt remembering how he’d accidentally swallowed a little of the salty water — but doesn’t comment. He settles quickly despite the excursion, blinking heavily as Dean fusses with the blanket.

They sleep a little better this time. The moon climbs higher in the slowly brightening sky, the sun preparing to rise.

Just before the first beams of red-gold light reaches the horizon, Dean wakes Castiel again. Together, they repeat the salt water procedure.

When Castiel huddles into a tight ball under the thin motel blanket, trembling slightly with his shivering, Dean makes a decision.

He’ll fall asleep quick, and being warm will definitely help, right?

Moving before he loses his courage, Dean stands up and rounds the bed, heading for the unoccupied side. Squinting in his confusion, Castiel rolls over to watch Dean kick his boots off.

Dean reaches for one corner of the blanket. He stops, pulls his hand back. Castiel continues with his usual wordless staring. Dean takes a deep breath.

And, finally, Dean is moving to lie down. Castiel accepts the new development easily, whining low in his throat as his accumulated warmth displaces.

“S’okay,” Dean murmurs, low. “It’ll warm up soon.”

True to his word, his body heat quickly fills the small space, and Castiel hesitantly scoots closer.

Dean drapes his jacket over Castiel, on top of the blanket, in hopes it would provide just a bit more warmth. He finds himself absently musing about how wonderful it was for motels to provide more than one pillow for a single bed, his hold on consciousness rapidly slipping.

And he’s exhausted, mostly asleep, all of the way unguarded. So when Castiel ventures ever closer, Dean only hums and opens his arms, pulling Castiel to his chest. He feels how tense Castiel is and reflexively starts stroking down his back without a second thought, until Castiel goes pliant in Dean’s arms and nuzzles shyly into his neck like a happy cat.

When Sam inevitably catches them — cuddled together as close as physically possible in the center of the motel bed — and gives Dean an infuriatingly smug smirk as he wakes them for brunch, Dean holds his tongue and follows Castiel’s lead in stuffing his mouth full with an enormous bite of the beautiful bacon cheeseburger he has in front of him. Castiel hums a happy sound, closing his eyes in absolute bliss as he chews; Dean smiles, unspeakably relieved to see Castiel’s bright eyes and healthy appetite. He even gives Castiel permission to steal the last of the perfectly seasoned potato wedges from his takeout box after they’ve both consumed the greater part of their meals, snickering quietly at Sam’s slack jawed awe.

“You’ll catch flies, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t show any signs of having heard Dean.

“Okay...” Dean shrugs, grabbing a napkin to wipe fast food grease from his mouth and fingers. “We’ll hit the road in a few.”

Castiel nods distractedly, licking grains of salt off the pad of his thumb.

Dean makes a face into his coffee and throws a clean napkin at him.

**Author's Note:**

> definitely do not recommend swallowing salty water (or sleeping in wet clothes)
> 
> I know salt water doesn’t cure colds, but if you catch your symptoms early and take the proper measures to keep yourself in your prime condition (preventative means are highly recommended, but there are also things like: staying warm and hydrated, eating proper meals to give you energy, etc.), you’ll definitely give your immune system a better chance at fighting off any nasties! Everything is a mess right now and it’s a rough time adjusting but please don’t forget to take care of yourself!


End file.
